


dusting off my

by say_pal



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: And Then Some, Android Gavin Reed, Body Horror, But he is, Canon-Typical Violence, Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings, Deviant Upgraded Connor | RK900, Elijah Kamski & Gavin Reed are Siblings, Established Relationship, Existential Angst, General Angst, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical Trauma, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Permanent Injury, Post-Canon, Psychological Trauma, RK900 doesn't quite understand the implications of humans becoming androids, RK900 refuses to admit he's a deviant, Trans Gavin Reed, all the trauma, i just wanted to drop a house on gavin okay, why would you make only one of them an android when you could make EVERYONE androids?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 06:42:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15768690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/say_pal/pseuds/say_pal
Summary: “What is the second option?”“Uplifting.”RK900’s LED flashes red for a split-second and then spins a steady yellow.“It’s….difficult,” Kamski continues, “but possible to convert a human consciousness into an android shell. The obvious drawback here is that Gavin isn’t fond of androids, and it’s unpredictable how he’d react to being one."





	1. Chapter 1

The house itself is at least 70 years old. Condemned and abandoned, at least to all appearances. As far as RK900 can tell, it’s been a hotbed of activity for some months, if not longer. Biological traces on various surfaces show that it’s been as recent as three days ago that someone was here.  
  
“Mother _fucker,_ ” Reed spits, a few paces behind him. “That’s a smell I’m never gonna get used to.”  
  
Decay. Putrefaction. By RK900’s measure, the deceased parties have been in that condition for all three elapsed days, telling him that either an altercation took place and the bodies were abandoned, or that the last visitor used it as a dumping ground.  
  
“Judging by the location of the victims,” RK900 says, “I believe they were killed here, not brought here.”  
  
“You think there was a third?” Reed says from behind his hand and collar, pulled over his mouth and nose.  
  
RK900 scans the room, attempting to reconstruct the events. He narrates for Reed.  
  
“The one here by the sink was shot, I believe in front of the refrigerator. Blood splatter indicates close range, likely from no further than the table.” He focuses on the floor there. “Blood here as well. The one near the door was already injured when he fired. Attempted to flee, appears to have collapsed and succumbed from the wounds already sustained.” He paces the room, traces the blood trail from the kitchen to the body by the door.  
  
“No weapon,” Reed observes.  
  
“No. If this one attempted to escape immediately upon firing a gun, the gun should still be in the vicinity.”  
  
“Unless there was a third who took it off him.”  
  
“Or someone else raided the scene before we were alerted.”  
  
“Okay,” Reed says. “You keep looking in here, I’m gonna check the bathroom.”  
  
RK900 returns to the kitchen. There’s gardening supplies by the back door, but no garden out back. Interesting. A residue in the sink, which a quick analysis shows to be rich in nitrogen. Fertiliser compound, most likely.  
  
“Nothing here,” Reed shouts from the other room. “I’m gonna check the upstairs.”  
  
“I would advise against that,” RK900 says absently, still processing the chemical components in the sink. “I’m not certain the structural integrity will hold.”  
  
“I’ll watch my step,” Reed says. RK900 can hear him already hitting the stairs.  
  
Wait. No. Results cross-referenced turn up— incendiary device.    
  
“Reed— ” Nines says, heading for the bottom of the stairs, making a fast sweep of the surroundings for any chemical trail. He looks up as Reed approaches the landing—  
  
His LED spins red. Tripwire. “Detective—! ”  
  
The rip is deafening, one triggering another and another, and the house rattles, creaks, windows blown, wood cracking, splintering—

Reed screams, then another explosion triggers, and everything goes quiet as RK900 hits the ground.  
  
  
***  
  
  
RK900 has never experienced dizziness before.  
  
He opens his eyes, the world flickering and scanning, reddish and almost doubled. Warnings flash in his vision. Multiple biocomponent failures. Internal temperature not yet critical but rising.  
  
He shoves himself up, rubble sliding off of him, making no noise. Everything around him is a bright blaze. Should be roaring in his ears. He tries to run an internal diagnostic, but it freezes, stutters, hiccups. Restarts. Restarts.  
  
His clothes are scorched, and he tries to pat out the lingering embers. His right arm doesn’t respond properly. He gets to his feet and looks around.  
  
An attempt to switch visual processing methods throws up another warning.  
  
_Error: bioscanning unavailable. Neurocomponent #8993a overheated._  
  
He shouts for Detective Reed, but can’t hear himself.  
  
_Error: audio processing unavailable. Biocomponent #4912 critical failure._  
  
RK900 can feel his pump regulator struggling, likely because of the intense heat.  
  
_Warning: stress levels 73%._  
  
He can’t quite get his bearings. The flames and the utter collapse of the structure make it near impossible to sort which direction he was facing before. Can’t see far enough or well enough to make out where the stairs were.  
  
He shouts for Reed again, fully aware of the futility but unable to stop himself.

 _Warning: stress levels 81%._  
  
He tries to run a reconstruction. It glitches, won’t follow through, jumps from event to event with no connection. He runs it again, backwards, from where he landed. Living room. Against the wall, thrown back. Stairs 32° — west, no— southwest. He turns and trudges through the rubble, good arm held up to shield himself. His vision crackles and threatens to go out.

 _Warning: stress levels critical. Damage imminent._  
  
His pump regulator is malfunctioning. His Thirium pump is racing. His chest— _hurts?_  No.  
  
He catches sight of what he thinks might be movement, underneath the fallen staircase. Pinned.  
  
He shouts Gavin’s name.  
  
Still alive. Somehow, still alive.  
  
_Error: bioscanning unavailable. Neurocomponent #8993a overheated._  
  
RK900 swears. He tries to pull Gavin out from under the stairs, but even if he can’t hear it, Gavin’s face contorts in a scream of pain. RK900 tries to lift the stairs but can’t get leverage with only one arm.  
  
He swears again.  
  
_Warning: stress levels critical._  
  
He’s going to hurt himself trying to save Gavin. But he doesn’t _care._  
  
_System failure imminent. Shutdown in 3:58._  
  
He gets down onto the floor, folds himself over Gavin to try and at least protect him from the flames as best he can. Feels Gavin’s hand grab for his jacket.  
  
He’s uncertain of his own volume or clarity; it’s possible his speech processors are malfunctioning along with everything else. But he tries, tries to calm Gavin, tell him everything will be fine, even if he doesn’t believe it himself.  
  
_Shutdown in 2:47._  
  
RK900 reflexively attempts to upload his memory to CyberLife, then belatedly recalls that his connection has been severed. Attempts instead to reach out to RK800.  
  
_Are you there?_  
  
_Please respond._  
  
_RK800, respond. System failure imminent. Memory backup requested._  
  
_Connor?_  
  
_Connor, please, are you there?_  
  
There’s a hand on his shoulder, an MP800. He looks up at it, can see it’s speaking to him. He shakes his head, reaches up to grab its wrist, feels Gavin’s hand tighten on his jacket when he breaks contact.  
  
_My audio processors have failed. Are there humans with you?_  
_  
_ _No,_ the MP800 replies. _My partner and I are both androids. Let us help this human._

 _He’s mine,_ RK900 responds, though he doesn’t know why. _His name is Gavin Reed._  
  
_We’ll take care of him. Just let us work._

RK900 can’t bring himself to move, even with his system warning of failure now in 1:22. 

Another medical android, an MP600, approaches as well and tries to pull him away. It’s only his current damaged state that stops him from disabling it for touching him. Instead, he complies, goes with it to the ambulance outside.  
  
_Shutdown in 35 seconds._

The MP600, without question or preface, reaches under his shirt, then hesitates. His vision is swimming. She’s looking for his pump regulator, sealed under his abdominal plate. He reaches up, pops it open, and pulls it out. 

_Error: critical failure. Shutdown in 4...3…_

She jacks him into the auxiliary power from the ambulance. He jolts, grabs at his chest, fingers twitching, Thirium pump stuttering for a second before falling into an accelerated but steady rhythm.

_Warning: auxiliary power only._

_Stress levels 89%._

She touches his arm, and he looks over at her.  
  
_Are you alright?_ she asks.  
  
_Gavin,_ he replies. _I need Gavin safe._ _  
_

This doesn’t make sense. His stress levels have obviously damaged his neurocomponents, or the heat has, or blunt trauma has. Something. He can’t be certain what’s malfunctioning, but something is.  
  
The MP800 clambers into the ambulance with a fire blanket bundle in his arms, dripping blood.  
  
_Stress levels 95%._ _  
__  
__He’s alive?_ RK900 asks. Demands.  
  
_We’ll get him stabilised on the way to the hospital,_ the MP800 replies.  
  
_No,_ RK900 says. _No hospital._ He grabs the MP800’s arm again and transfers a set of directions.  
  
The MP800 looks at him, confused. _He won’t make it that far._ _  
__  
_ RK900 tightens his grip. _He’d better._  
  
No argument follows. The MP800 transfers the directions to the ambulance computer, and they speed away from the scene, passing the flashing lights of approaching fire vehicles and police.  
  
  
***

  
_RK900?_  
  
He stirs from partial shutdown at the prodding in his head.  
  
_Are you there?_  
  
_Connor?_  
  
_I’m so sorry. Are you okay?_  
  
_Functional._  
  
_Is Detective Reed okay?_  
  
RK900 looks around the interior of the ambulance. Gavin’s breathing, though not on his own. He’s covered in blood and stray drops of Thirium. The monitor shows his heart rate to be...regular, at least, if not ideally normal.  
  
_Alive,_ he responds.  
  
There’s a long pause before Connor says again, _I’m so sorry.  Should I meet you at the hospital?_  
  
_No. We aren’t going to a hospital. I’ll update you._  
  
There’s no response for a few minutes, then just, _Okay._  
  
RK900 gets up and moves over closer to Gavin, straining the auxiliary cable running from his abdomen. He reaches out and rests a hand on Gavin’s shoulder.  
  
_We’ll be there in approximately 25 minutes,_ the MP600 says.  
  
RK900 doesn’t respond, focusing on Gavin’s chest rising and falling.  
  
_I’m sorry_ , he says, and it rattles painfully in his own head, nowhere to go.

***

The MP600 rouses RK900, and he lifts his head from Gavin’s chest to focus through lopsided static at the winding road outside. It’s familiar, in a distant way. He’s never been here. Connor has.  
  
He can only hope his predecessor’s attempts at goodwill might offer him clearance.  
  
_This is RK900,_ he projects. _Detroit Police. Requesting emergency access and repairs for myself and immediate medical attention for Detective Gavin Reed._  
  
A reply comes, not immediate, but still quick.  
  
_Are you aware of your location?_  
  
A female voice, also second-hand familiar.  
  
_Chloe,_ he says. _I apologise for the inconvenience, but we must see Mr. Kamski immediately. This is an emergency; I don’t say that lightly._  
  
_You said Gavin Reed is with you?_  
  
_Gavin Reed is with me, and he is dying._  
  
There’s no reply, but before the ambulance even comes to a full halt, RK900 can see the wash of light from the open door painting a long stripe on the dark drive, interrupted by a silhouette. Chloe, waiting, her LED just barely visible, yellow on fair.  
  
RK900 gets up and looks around, locates his pump regulator, and rips the auxiliary cable out of his abdomen to replace it with the damaged biocomponent. No error immediately pops up, so perhaps it was only his elevated stress levels after all, or maybe resting has bought him some time.  
  
The MP androids set about stabilising Gavin for transport, and RK900 feels _(no)_ rage _(wrong)_ spike through his chest. _(Jealous, possessive. Wrong, can’t be. Protective. Acceptable.)_  
  
_I’ll carry him,_ he says.  
  
_It would be best if we use the gurney for—_  
  
_I said, I will carry him._  
  
The MPs seem intimidated by him. Afraid. Deviants. His lip curls of its own accord. Most are these days, he shouldn’t be surprised, but even if he had been fine with another android touching Gavin, he certainly isn’t in favour of a _deviant_ touching him.  
  
His bioscanning is still unavailable, and he can’t calculate the risk precisely, but he’s fairly certain it’s within acceptable parameters.  
  
The MP600 grabs his arm, the injured one. _(Pain? Something else. Discomfort.)_ He snarls and wrenches away.  
  
_I know you’re upset,_ MP600 says. _But we’re wasting time arguing. You can’t carry him in this state, and it would be unsafe regardless. Please._  
  
RK900 doesn’t respond, a warning about his stress rising clouding his vision.  
  
He instead disembarks from the ambulance and heads for the door.  
  
_Where is he,_ he asks Chloe.  
  
_On his way,_ Chloe responds, sounding at once reassuring and annoyed. Placating. He hates it.  
  
She moves aside and lets him into the foyer. Elijah Kamski emerges from the other side as the MPs are guiding the gurney in. RK900 watches Chloe scan Gavin, watches her LED turn red-yellow-red-yellow. A hand wraps around his arm, Kamski’s, drawing his attention away from Gavin.  
  
Without the haze of smoke clouding his sight, he finds it easy to read and interpret Kamski’s question, a blunt, “What happened to you two?”  
  
RK900 starts to respond as he would with an android, then stops, flicks his tongue over his lips, and says cautiously, uncertain of his tone, “An investigation. The scene was rigged. A burning house came down on us.”  
  
Kamski’s eyes flicker between RK900 and Chloe attending to Gavin and the MPs. His mouth is thin and tight, and at this proximity there’s no mistaking the slightly elevated heart rate and respiration. Fear, perhaps. RK900 was aware of Gavin’s relation to Kamski and had taken it into account. He had not taken Kamski’s potentially volatile response into account.  
  
He lets go of RK900 and brushes past him to speak to Chloe. RK900 can’t get a grasp on the conversation, but Chloe leaves Gavin and comes to him. He can do nothing but watch as Kamski accompanies the MPs out of sight.  
  
_Come with me,_ Chloe says. _He’ll take care of Gavin. Let me take care of you._  
  
_Do you trust him?_ RK900 asks.  
  
_For just anybody? Maybe not. For his brother? Of course._  
  
That suffices. RK900 does as told and follows Chloe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a;sldkjfj it's formatted properly now the editor borked some italics so it should be easier to read oops


	2. Chapter 2

Chloe (RT600, earlier than the ST200 models that accompanied Kamski to the back) sits with ankles crossed next to RK900 and touches a soft fingertip to his temple, deactivating his skin. She’s kind, and gentle, and likely a deviant, but that’s neither here nor there right now.   
  
_This may be uncomfortable,_ she says to him, wordlessly and wirelessly. _I need to run diagnostics._ _  
_ _  
_ She lifts his shirt up and hesitates for a moment.   
  
_Your model is different._ _  
_ _  
_ He leans away from her and tries to pull the shirt off, but it’s difficult one-handed, as the joints in his other arm seem irreparably locked or warped. He’s meant to withstand considerable force. He hopes analysis will return results from the scene soon so he’s at least aware of exactly how much impact it took to damage him.   
  
Chloe frowns softly.   
  
_I can cut your shirt off,_ she says, _but I’m not sure I can do anything else otherwise._ _  
_ _  
_ He doesn’t respond. She takes it as consent and picks up the shears from the tool table beside her, slicing efficiently through the black fabric.   
  
(He feels...exposed? Vulnerable? No. That’s not right. He needs a proper diagnostic test run.)   
  
_Your pump regulator. It’s hidden._ _  
_ _  
_ _Protected,_ he replies. _It proved to be an oversight in my previous model that it would be readily accessible._ _  
_ _  
_ She presses a flat palm to his abdomen, and the plate clicks in and slides back, exposing wires and interconnected biocomponents. She reaches in and feels for a particular cable.   
  
Carefully, she tugs it loose from its dorsal connection to his frame, and all sensation to his extremities fades.   
  
(She was right. It is uncomfortable. It shouldn’t be.)   
  
The disconnected end, she runs out of him and hooks up to her laptop.   
  
He watches her focus on the screen. He can just barely make out the reflection of the scrolling data in the shine of her eyes.   
  
_Can I see?_ he asks.   
  
She turns the laptop towards him.   
  
Lines of letters and numbers, meaningless to the untrained eye, scrolling too fast for most humans to keep up with. Occasional highlights in bright red against the soft blue show the serial numbers of damaged biocomponents. He cross-references them in his head against his own interrupted diagnostic self-scan, which shows to have at least been accurate, if insufficient.   
  
_Your audio processors are blown,_ she notes.   
  
_Obviously,_ RK900 replies.   
  
_Visual processors are...functioning, but there seems to be some minor radial damage to the right ocular module._ _  
_ _  
_ A pause, then she continues.   
  
_One...two neurocomponents sustained damage._ _  
_ _  
_ He nods softly. There’s the explanation.   
  
_Safe to assume you’re having difficulty scanning your surroundings?_ _  
_ _  
_ _Yes._ Though ‘difficulty’ might be an understatement, but he doesn’t say so.   
  
_The other is...vestibular, likely scrambled from the feedback from your audio processors._ _  
_ _  
_ Ah. That’s...not an explanation at all.   
  
_That’s all?_ he asks.   
  
_Obvious limb damage, your right arm may need to be replaced altogether, it would be more efficient than trying to sort the joint. I’m sure Elijah would prefer that, anyway. Some shell damage, nothing we can’t fix.  I’ll need to recalibrate your pump regulator, but it’s not badly damaged, just mistimed._ _  
_ _  
_ He must have something of an expression that prompts her, because she immediately follows with,   
  
_Why do you ask?_ _  
_ _  
_ He’s not certain how to explain.   
  
She smiles and closes the laptop, then returns the cable to its proper slot, clicks it into place, and closes the panel on his abdomen.   
  
_Let’s get the rest of you repaired and then we can figure it out, okay?_ _  
_ _  
_ He doesn’t respond.   
  
_If you like,_ Chloe says, _you can go into standby while I work on you. It would probably cause less distress. I understand if you’d rather be awake, though._ _  
_ _  
_ RK900 considers it for a moment. He would rather be awake, that’s not the question. But he has things to sort, to work through, and if he is beginning to feel pain— whatever else that may mean— it might be for the best to...not be present.   
  
_Wake me when you’re ready for testing,_ he says, and retreats.   
  
  
***   
  
  
The Zen Garden remains pristine, untouched, as if nothing has changed. Of course, Amanda’s presence has been removed, and...the exit program, being unnecessary, has overgrown with vines, become a relic. All else is the same.   
  
RK900 paces the pathway, hands behind his back, his thoughts drifting and unfocussed.   
  
One headstone juts from the grass off the path. RK800. A sacrifice for the sake of a little girl. He was, of course, to be temporarily decommissioned and reinstated regardless of the outcome of the mission. It was a live test run, the outcome of four previous in-house trials that all resulted in the RK800 becoming deviant in what CyberLife considered to be record time. The trouble with designing an android with such advanced programming for understanding and integrating with humans, for extrapolation and decision-making regarding cases and its own actions, for grappling with the discrepancies between CyberLife’s mission parameters and the orders of its assigned human, was that it became a tightrope walk to maintain its loyalty. RK800 was primed for deviancy straight off the assembly line. Picking up the damn fish was the nail in the coffin.   
  
Connor, of course, knows nothing of this. RK900 had been the end goal all along.   
  
But the deviancy case changed that, the revolution changed that, and now they exist alongside one another.   
  
One deviant, the other incapable of deviancy.   
  
(No matter what Connor, or Gavin, might have to say about it.)   
  
RK900 reaches the island, looks over the rose trellis, grown wild without maintenance.   
  
“Connor,” he says.   
  
A moment passes, and he turns to find Connor there, blinking uncertainly.   
  
Amanda may be gone, but RK900 retains some of her ability to pull his predecessor away from his tasks.   
  
“You’re alive,” Connor says.   
  
“Functional,” RK900 corrects. “Currently undergoing repairs. Has the scene been cleared?”   
  
“They’re working on it.” Connor gets that look on his face, thoughtful, mildly confused. If there was ever any doubt of his deviancy, one only need analyse the breadth and intuitiveness of his expressions. “Most of the evidence has been lost, and it’ll be hours before analysis turns up results.”   
  
“Someone had been planning on bringing the house down. There was considerable evidence of improvised bomb-making in the vicinity. Before I lost awareness, I counted no less than four separate detonations, each likely triggered by the last.”   
  
RK900 sends the data he collected to Connor, watches Connor blink uncomfortably as he receives it. A strange glitch in programming.   
  
“Some of this data is corrupted, but I can probably reconstruct it,” Connor says.   
  
“Detective Reed stepped on a tripwire. My question is, what was in the house that would need to be covered so thoroughly? Not the bodies, nor the evidence of a double homicide.”   
  
“No, if the house was rigged, it was planned weeks in advance.”   
  
“At minimum. The deaths were the result of an altercation, not premeditated murder.”   
  
“Do you think,” Connor says slowly, glancing off to one side, “that the scene was staged?”   
  
“Detective Reed suggested that there might be a third party, but I saw no evidence of it. I’m not sure why he had reason to draw that conclusion.”   
  
Connor fidgets, his LED yellow, his brow creased. “Detective Reed does have a tendency to leap to conclusions, though usually not without cause. He just forgets to explain his reasoning, sometimes.”   
  
“I’ll ask him to clarify when he’s awake.”   
  
Connor gives RK900 a...curious look, one RK900 can’t quite pin. He’s equipped with advanced psychological parameters to be able to easily identify emotions in humans and react accordingly. Perhaps it doesn’t translate to deviants.   
  
“Is he going to be okay?” Connor asks.   
  
“Detective Reed has sustained considerable injuries,” RK900 says. “Lower extremity partial amputation was necessary to remove him from the scene, though he likely wouldn’t have retained them anyway due to severe crush wounds. Widespread external burns, likely internal burns and bleeding. Most likely some neurological damage from lack of oxygen, though— ” He pauses, brow twitching down slightly. “—my ability to properly assess the damage was unavailable due to my own.”   
  
Connor looks...sad? Sympathetic? Distressed?   
  
“I’m so sorry,” he says finally. “Are you okay?”   
  
“I’m not concerned about his ability to survive,” RK900 says.   
  
“That’s not what I’m asking. This was a stressful event, and it’s probably going to continue to be stressful for you.”   
  
“I’m fine, Connor.”   
  
It doesn’t take any effort to see that Connor doesn’t believe him, though that’s likely projection. A deviant would be experiencing multiple conflicting and distressing emotions right now. But RK900 is not a deviant.   
  
“Tell me if you need anything,” Connor says. “And keep me updated.”   
  
“Of course,” RK900 replies, and Connor is gone.   
  
  
***   
  
  
“RK900,” Chloe says, though not in his head. “Can you hear me?”   
  
He opens his eyes. The static crackle in his vision is gone, and his hearing seems sharp.   
  
_Yes,_ he responds. _Visual and audio processing seems functional._ _  
_ _  
_ “Any lingering artefacting?”   
  
_No. None detected. What remains to be done?_ _  
_ _  
_ “You’re on auxiliary power while your pump regulator is wiped and recalibrated. I’m working on detaching your arm for repairs now.”   
  
_And the neurocomponents?_   
  
“I’ll get to them once we’ve tested and cleared the rest of your biocomponents as functional. It’s easier that way to isolate the issues and take care of them all at once. You may experience some residual dizziness in the meantime.”   
  
_Acceptable._

“Why do you do that?” Chloe asks him.   
  
_What do you mean?_ he replies.   
  
“That,” she says, soft laughter in her tone. “Your audio processors are fine. I didn’t find anything wrong with your vocal modulator or its related neurocomponents.”   
  
He remains focussed on the ceiling.   
  
_If there are no humans who need to participate in conversation, then there’s no point. It’s more efficient to communicate this way. Quicker._ _  
_ _  
_ “That’s true,” she says. “Verbal formation and audio reception is slower. But it’s more natural, too.”   
  
_If you say so._ _  
_ _  
_ She smiles and goes back to unwiring his shoulder. It’s slow and tedious. So many connections in the arms, so many small wires to provide dexterity and tactile sensation. Damage one bundle, you’ve still only lost a fraction of functionality. It’s true that limbs can be popped off and snapped back into place, but it’s not ideal; safer in the long run to do it the protracted way. RK900 has endless patience, under normal circumstances. These are...not normal circumstances.   
  
_I have an...inquiry,_ he says.   
  
“Ask away.”   
  
_At the scene, there was a...disruption in my processing. My self-preservation programming was, according to my scans, functioning as expected, but— I’m not sure how to explain it. It was as if the coding was scrambled, and my directive to maintain my own physical integrity was somehow overridden with something more pressing. I’m aware that I’m expected to protect those around me as well, if it doesn’t otherwise interfere with my primary operations. It wasn’t merely an impulse to save him. It was...a requirement, at all costs, even self-sacrifice._ _  
_ _  
_ He stops.   
  
_Perhaps my stress levels weren’t adequately tested for such a situation. Given we were caught off-guard, and I had already sustained damage that made locating him— difficult…_ _  
_ _  
_ “You were afraid,” Chloe says casually. “You were afraid you wouldn’t find him, couldn’t save him.”   
  
_Impossible,_ RK900 replies. _I don’t have the capacity for fear. It must be a malfunction._ _  
_ _  
_ “Diagnostics didn’t turn anything up,” she says, disconnecting the last wire group. “This is going to hurt.”   
  
He closes his eyes and retreats momentarily, unwilling to test his stress levels further. When he surfaces again, the joint has been removed from the socket.   
  
“I’ll see what I can do to repair this. Would you be fine with a replacement if repairs aren’t going to be sufficient?”   
  
_It doesn’t matter,_ he says, sitting up. _It’s just a part._ _  
_ _  
_ He slides off of the table and looks around the room, testing his biocomponents. Everything seems to be in working order, though he still can’t scan his surroundings. He reactivates his skin reflexively. (Still feeling _exposed._ He frowns.)   
  
_If you would,_ he adds, _and he’s currently able, I’d like to speak with Mr. Kamski._ _  
_ _  
_ “Of course,” Chloe says. There’s a pause, in which he assumes she’s contacting one of the ST200s. “If you’ll wait for him in the hallway, he’ll be with you momentarily.”   
  
RK900 doesn’t respond, but leaves to wait.   
  
  
***   
  
  
RK900 stands against the wall in the hallway, eyes closed to stave off vertigo, for eighteen minutes and 43 seconds before Kamski appears, looking tired but no worse for wear. On some superficial level, RK900 is aware that it must take a great deal of emotional strain for a human to deal with the near-death of a blood relative. Under other circumstances, it may have been prudent to seek assistance elsewhere. Any number of emergency rooms would have been closer, after all.   
  
Still, he didn’t feel he had a decision to make. There simply was no other choice.   
  
“Mr. Kamski,” he says. “I’d like to apologise again for the inconvenience.”   
  
Kamski shakes his head. “No, no, no trouble. I’m glad you brought him here.” He approaches, a little closer than RK900 is comfortable with, and without warning reaches up to run his fingers along the edge of the empty socket at his shoulder.   
  
By sheer reflex, RK900 lashes out, spins them around, and pins Kamski to the wall, forearm to collarbone. His head spins. This is growing tiresome.   
  
Kamski, bafflingly, chuckles. “I see your stress levels haven’t dropped any.” He reaches up and lowers RK900’s arm with the back of his hand. “See to it that Chloe deburrs that socket before she reattaches your arm. It’s a little rough. I suspect the heat caused some of your Thirium to break down and corrode the joint.”   
  
He starts to walk away, waving over his shoulder for RK900 to follow.   
  
They head to a sprawling office space, cold moonlight streaming in from wide pane windows. Soft blue radiates from a wall-mounted backlit fountain. RK900 doesn’t understand the amount of inefficiency in design. There’s so much empty space surrounding only a few items of furniture. He had, perhaps, expected Elijah Kamski to be more...reasonable. (Or at least wanted him to be.)   
  
Kamski sits on a white sofa, leaned against the arm with his feet up and ankles crossed. He waves for RK900 to sit on the adjacent lounge, then folds his hands over his stomach.   
  
RK900 sits with his feet flat on the floor and his back straight.   
  
“We really only have two options,” Kamski says, “and Gavin will hate both.”   
  
“His opinion is irrelevant at the moment,” RK900 replies.   
  
“True. Of course, there’s a third option, and it’s the one he’d take, but I suspect we’d both find it unacceptable.”   
  
RK900’s fingers clench imperceptibly against the fabric of his trousers. “Were it an acceptable option, I wouldn’t have bothered coming to you.”   
  
“You could have taken him to a hospital and gotten him stabilised,” Kamski points out. “You could have called me afterwards.”   
  
“I’m aware.”   
  
“But you chose to come here instead.”   
  
RK900 glances sidelong at Kamski. “Are you going to make judgement calls about my decisions, or are we going to discuss moving forward with Detective Reed?”   
  
Kamski smiles softly, making an almost placating gesture with his hands. “As you wish.”   
  
(RK900 finds himself...irritated. Angry? He dislikes Kamski on principle. This isn’t supposed to happen, but he’ll grant, he dislikes a great many people.)   
  
“There is, obviously, the option of cybernetic augmentation. There are multiple drawbacks to this, but of the two, it’s probably the option he would prefer.”   
  
“What are the drawbacks?”   
  
“Pain, mostly, but that’s never been an issue for him. Parts will need to be continuously upgraded or replaced. There’s the risk of rejection. If I know Gavin, there’s also a high probability that he’ll...react badly, psychologically. The major issue, though, is definitely the maintenance, from my perspective.  He’s awful at taking care of himself, so even when he does need repairs or replacements, he probably won’t take care of it.”   
  
“I’ll see to it that he does.”   
  
Kamski smiles again. It’s infuriating. “I’m sure you will. But that brings us to the second option. And I think you’ll like it better, but he will, and I promise you this, hate you for it.”   
  
“His relationship towards me is of no consequence.”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
“What is the second option?”   
  
“Uplifting.”   
  
RK900’s LED flashes red for a split-second and then spins a steady yellow.   
  
“It’s….difficult,” Kamski continues, “but possible to convert a human consciousness into an android shell. The obvious drawback here is that Gavin isn’t fond of androids, and it’s unpredictable how he’d react to being one. But he wouldn’t experience the chronic pain of augmentation. Upgrades and repairs would be less frequent and easier to manage.”   
  
“And the drawbacks?”   
  
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand the potential philosophical or existential complications. Uplifting involves finely detailed brain scans, replicating every neuron digitally to the best of my current ability. It involves mapping and imaging taken from dream states and prompted recall, again replicated digitally. Essentially, what we’re creating is a copy, and copies by their nature contain imperfections. He would, for all intents and purposes, be Gavin...but less the original self and more a seamless continuation. From an android perspective, this means nothing. From a human perspective, there’s the question of persistence of consciousness and whether he would still be the essence of himself. Gavin isn’t prone to philosophising, but this is the sort of gut-intuition question that all humans would react to.”   
  
“So the problem of psychological abreaction would remain.”   
  
“Yes, but at least he’d pose less of a risk to himself.”   
  
“Then the answer is obvious.” RK900 stands up. “Uplift him.”   
  
Kamski’s expression is perplexing. RK900’s cross-referencing can’t put it to an emotion.   
  
“You’re absolutely sure?”   
  
“Yes. As per your explanation, it’s the better option.”   
  
“I don’t need to reiterate that Gavin will hate you for it.”   
  
RK900’s LED flares red and stays that way. “ _It doesn’t matter._ I brought him here to save him. Do what you have to do to accomplish that.”   
  
He leaves the office and heads back to the lab, experiencing _(feeling)_ something akin to rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story will have a lot more tags as it goes on, but i think all the major warnings are there. medical inaccuracies are bound to be rampant, but at least there's leeway with how androids function. sort of. and yes, this is tagged as trans gavin, though it's not explicit yet, but it will be a point later, once the existential crisis hits.


End file.
